Читать книгу Painted Veils - James Huneker - Страница 9

Alfred Stone spat bitterly on the floor of his bedroom—which was also his living-room and library. His cigarette tasted like toasted rag, and in his mouth there was scum. Brown, brown and yellow, he told himself. This boozing till all hours in the morning must be stopped. A hard night last night down at Lüchow's, but the crowd left there at half past one when they couldn't get anything more and went over to Andy's on Second Avenue and played poker-dice till six. No wonder I feel rotten, said Stone. It was past midday. He swallowed a cup of strong tea which he made with trembling hands. He had a concert to "cover," a concert at Mendelssohn Hall, but first he must go to his office at the "Daily Chanticleer." He looked at his image in the glass. His skin was dingy, discolored, his eyes unnaturally dilated. A hard night and a hard face. He lighted a cigarette. Tea and tobacco soon steadied his nerves. He was in a moody humour. What's the use of anything? was its keynote. The bookmakers had hit him hard the day before; hence the drinking bout with a gang of chaps for whom he didn't care a rap. Ulick had been with them at the start, had eaten a hearty dinner, but, as usual, dodged away when the heavy drinking began. Smart Ulick. But a bloody blighter when it came to sticking. However, I can't blame him, philosophically added Stone. Ulick doesn't drink or smoke. Why should he tag after a band of thirsty ruffians like ours. He's girl-mad, that's what he is. And why the sudden interest in Easter Brandès?

Her name gave him a new point of departure. That young woman was too shrewd by half. Too ambitious, uncannily so. The soul of a pawnbroker, he had accused her of having. Young, not bad looking—he was critical this day—but coldly selfish; what's worse, she didn't mind letting you see how indifferent she was.

She would make a man run himself to death and take it for granted. But he was through. I bring her to the Cosmopolitaine, introduce her to the right set, and she seems to think it only natural. Not a word of thanks, if you please. She doesn't mind that stinker Lapoul messing over her, never turns a hair. And yesterday I take her to Ash, and because she hears some wholesome truths she vents her spite on me at dinner last night. What do you think of it? In the violence of his outraged dignity Stone left the table and sauntered to the window. Ugh! he groaned. It was raining and the prospect of going out to listen to a dull piano-recital—or was it some screecher of a soprano—gave him the blues worse than ever. What a rotten life, he meditated. I feel like a chicken with the pip. Oh, Lord, how long? Well, Frida Ash, the good old girl, certainly did lay down the law to Easter. A promising career. But work, work like a galley-slave for at least four years; maybe five. I'll do it, cries Easter. A bargain, says Frida. Easter gets two or three lessons a week and in return is to be accompanist for Ash. That's a nice job, I don't think. Play accompaniments all day for a set of imbecile amateurs. But what can she do? She has no money. She is too chilly to earn any by approved horizontal methods.

He puffed a fresh cigarette. Am I fond of the girl? he asked himself. No, not by a long shot, but she will be a fine morsel for some lucky chap—with money. Oh yes lashins' and lavins' of money she'll want. What a curious bird she is, just like Invern. She tried to pump me about him. Is she mashed on him? Who knows? I fancy the lady didn't much like vacating his rooms. She asked me, with such a funny look in her eye: "How is it your friend is in town, lecturing at the Conservatoire, and all that. Yet he doesn't live in his own apartment?" And what a thunder-cloud expression she wore when I carelessly explained: "Oh you must know, Ulick is a bit of a runabout. I suppose he has something new on his staff. He usually disappears at such times, till the period of disillusionment; then he returns to the home-nest, pale but pious. He's a queer bird also, is Ulick." Aha! the girl positively became discontented. I have to laugh. No, she won't do for me. Her eyes are too secret, too calculating, and her ears too tiny—but they are pretty ears all the same. Heigho! I'll dress and go to my little hell hall. The man who invented musical criticism should have been evirated. Ha! that's a good word, evirated! I'll use it in my notice tomorrow. Herr Slopstein should be evirated for the manner in which he played Beethoven. …